An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

But What About The Economy!?

The caravan made slow progress over the first day. The road south was wide and well-maintained, but they could only move as fast as the slowest person, and so they crawled along at the pace of the elderly and unfit pilgrims who lacked wealth or want to own their own horses and carriages. As morning turned to afternoon and they found themselves only halfway to Bocca, she overheard grumbling aristocrats and exasperated merchants agreeing to make space on the carts so that they would not be crawling their way to Riposa. The grumbling turned to petty arguing as they debated what should go where and who should store what and whether the nearly empty wheelhouses can be used as extra space for their goods (since the aristocrats vehemently denied sharing even the slightest space with the lowly pilgrims trailing the caravan).

But Palmira held little care for such logistics. Instead she busied herself staring at the scenery, watching farm after farm pass them by. She and Morte would quietly speak on what they saw, watching as the fenced-off olive and lemon farms petered out into poorer wheat and rye. Occasionally, on distant hills, she would see walled villas or outdated castles watching over the endless farmlands, the imposing rural aristocracy reminding those who worked the fields of their presence. Every half-hour or so they'd pass by another village, and even though Firozzi was far behind them it never felt as though they were truly far from civilization.

Long ago, she had heard it said that these lands had been tamed since the dawn of history. That further north in the lands of barbarians, demons, and elves, large swathes of land were nought but forest and plains. That one could walk the ancient Volan roads for days and not see a single sign of civilization anywhere, merely an endless sea of nature in all directions.

She wasn't sure she believed them. What would such a place even look like? How could there be a place so untouched?

She asked Morte and was surprised by his response.

"It's a lot different, up north," he told her. "And down south. And to the far east, and the far west. It's different everywhere, really. You're on the Alovoan Peninsula, the heartlands of an empire that ruled for a thousand years, who were in turn preceded by city-states that had inhabited this peninsula for a thousand years before them. This isn't normal. The continent to our south is filled with vast, untamable deserts. To the east are endless plains that stretch on past the horizon. And to the north are frozen forests and mountains that only get colder and more uninhabited the further north you get. Alovoa is a tiny island of development in a sea of uncivilized wastelands."

"But surely there are cities out there as well, right? Cities like Firozzi and Vola and Iscrimo?"

"Oh, sure. But if we're on a tiny island, then those cities are little more than bits of rock jutting out of the ocean. And the demon wars certainly didn't help matters."

She went silent and tried to imagine such places. Trees that went on for miles, or beaches that were as large as oceans. She looked out at the endless farmland and imagined ice in it's place. She thought back to the ash-fields of Iscrimo, and wondered what it would be like if they went on forever.

She found that she couldn't picture it, and soon got bored of that line of thought, and so she stopped thinking of it. Instead she practiced with her magic, creating tendrils of burning flames which curled around her body like a snake. They danced around her wrists and curled up her shoulders, as she mimicked the dances she'd see Amina preform with her dewdrops. She passed by the rest of the trip like that, getting more and more creative as she went.

One of the merchants asked if she'd ever done performances. She told them she had not.

The sun began to set by the time they reached Bocca, and with it the coast of the Alovoan Peninsula. The port city was one she'd passed through briefly before on her way to Firozzi, and she wondered if she'd see more of it while they were there. But as soon as they stopped she was cornered by Chiara and Lorenzo, who told her impolitely and politely that she'd be taking the first shift on night-watch, and impolitely and politely told her that she was not under any circumstances allowed to leave the caravan to visit the city.

So instead she was sat on a rock (she was banned from the wagons for reasons of fire) and absently helped the merchants and pilgrims set up their evening firepits.

"If only I could keep you around for every expedition," one of the merchants told her when she was within earshot of Chiara. She sent her a smug smirk that sent the other girl sneering. "We'd save so much money not having to buy spark-rocks!"

Palmira tilted her head at him. "Would you really?"

"Eh," he waggled his hand. "Probably not that much. But you'll never get anywhere in life if you aren't willing to cut corners!"

After that enlightening conversation she climbed on top of an old shed on the empty farm they'd set up camp in. She looked off into the darkness to her left, and then to the darkness to her right, and felt goosebumps trail up her arms. She hated how exposed she was, out here. It had only been a day, but she found herself longing for the narrow streets of Firozzi, where towering buildings protected her from all sides and the countless people breathed life into every space.

Out here it was cold and open and empty. It made her stomach churn and her heart shiver.

She breathed out a small flame and cuddled it close to her chest. She glanced longingly at Bocca, at the red tiled roofs lit up by violet streetlights and the distant shadows of the drunk and nocturnal moving around so late at night. Beyond the city laid the sea, the endless expanse reflecting the night sky above, and in the low light of the new moon it made it near impossible to tell where either ended.

For the sea was the sky and the sky was the sea, and that was all either was and all either could be.

"…Hey, Morte, do you ever wonder if you've learned things you don't remember?"

"I've likely forgotten more things than I've ever learned. Why do you ask?"

"Because whenever I look at the stars, all I can think of is dust. Burning, smoldering dust."

"…I doubt it's anything important. Why don't you tell me about Bocca, instead. You've said you visited before?"

So she put the thought out of her mind and spent the rest of the night telling Morte about the small port city. She told him about the marble tree which grew at the center, baleful violet fires burning from it's branches like leaves. She told him about the new church they'd built, whose belltower had started sinking and had nearly struck up a religious revolt. And she told him about the harbor, the vast wooden docks filled with sailors of all races and creeds who stared out at the ocean with such spite as if the sea itself were their greatest enemy.

And before she knew it Lorenzo showed up and relieved her of her shift, and she left to curl up in the center of the caravan by the largest fire, taking some measure of comfort surrounded by the looming wheelhouses and snoring pilgrims.

--​

The next day was more of the same, though they made better time, now that the pilgrims had been rounded up and forced to ride on the wagons with the rest of them. Some had complained, saying they needed to make the march on foot, and those people were told they could make the march on foot alone if they were so inclined.

Things moved swiftly after that.

Now, as they trundled down the coast at a brisker pace, Palmira found she was no longer able to leisurely stroll along the wheelhouses. Instead, she'd removed her sandals and lit flames beneath her feet, letting her easily keep pace with the horses and wagons.

"Is this your first quest?" one of the merchants asked her, riding alongside on a well-groomed pony. He was an older man, with greying hair and pudgy cheeks that had gone pink with exertion from the long ride from Bocca.

"Oh!" Palmira startled, nearly loosing her footing. "Um, yes, it is. How'd you know?"

"Because you're back here with us," he chuckled lightly, giving her a smile. "Most adventurers prefer to galivant off ahead, and we only see them once we stop for camp. Not that that's a bad thing, of course. I would rather they stop any bandit or monster long before it reaches us, but it does mean I like to treasure the few conversations I get with your ilk."

She blinked slowly. She hadn't realized she was so obvious.

"Don't mind it," he smiled at her expression. "We all start somewhere. Just remember, no matter what else happens on this trip, at least you're getting paid!"

If only.

The old man continued to talk with her for the rest of the day. He told her about his cousin (the leader of their caravan, who'd hired their guild), his sons (who were back in Firozzi, managing his estate for him) and his daughters (who were both married, one to a local in the city and one all the way out in Palunera). He'd asked about her family after, and she deflected by talking about her childhood friend who lived in Iscrimo working as an artist for some big-shot Famiglia.

The old man asked if she missed her friend. She responded by saying she was going to punch her in the face the next chance she got.

After that conversation turned to his work, specifically with dyes. He told her about how you could coax purple from snails (weird) or talk owls into revealing the secrets of red (cool). He also told her about how the dyeworker's guild had nearly gone under a few decades ago, during the worst recession in living memory.

"Well, we all almost went under," he corrected, tapping his knee. "My children barely remember it, but I do. It was right after the Demon Wars 'ended,' see. The old heartlands had been conquered, and suddenly all the trade that came from the old capital dried up. Timber, furs, grain, all of it suddenly gone. But the people weren't, ohoho no. If only they'd had the decency to die with their kingdom, but instead we had refugees flooding our cities by the tens of thousands, bringing with them nothing but hungry mouths to feed and constant complaining about how things were 'oh so much better back home.'"

"Was it really that big of a deal?" Palmira asked, enthralled despite herself. It beat looking at the sea at least—the massive body of water always made her uncomfortable. "I didn't realize it had gotten so bad."

"Oh, it would get worse, I assure you. Do you ever wonder why piccoli, grossi, and ducats are all minted in denominations of copper, silver, and gold each?"

"…Uh, no?"

"Well," the old merchant threw his hands in the air, nearly falling off his horse in the process. He readjusted himself, and then continued ranting to her in the voice of a man possessed by a decade's old grudge. "You see, about five or so years after the Demon Wars end, we get word from Akifa that the price of gold just tanked. 'Okay, that's bad, but not the worst thing in the world,' we said, like fools. 'We'll just start minting more silver for a bit instead.' But then, not a month later, the price of gold tanks again, and we get maybe another month to brace ourselves before it falls again. And by this point, you must realize, the Demons have fully occupied the old heartlands and our population is about one-fourth jobless refugee. So the price of grain has skyrocketed and the price of gold has tanked and suddenly people are selling solid gold ducats for loafs of bread and they're coming up short."

"Wait, you mean to say bread was worth more than gold!?"

"Yes! It was the worst years of my life! I don't know if you know this, but we're still recovering to this day! Gold is only worth about maybe half it was before the Demon Wars, we've just reorganized our economy around silver instead."

"Did you ever figure out what happened?"

"Oh, we did alright," the old merchant huffed. "See, some heathen King in the south decided to make a pilgrimage to the holy land. And when I say south, I mean beyond the salt-wastes south. And apparently, beyond the salt-wastes it is so overflowing with gold they're wiping their asses with it. So this King goes on his pilgrimage and brings with him over thirty tons of gold, which he then starts handing out to anyone who crosses his path. He flooded the markets of Kush, Ascalon, and Milh'almilh with so much gold they can't even use it as currency anymore because everyone and their mother has ten pounds of it sitting in their kitchen. And, obviously, this means the local leaders are desperate to get rid of all this gold. So they start selling it to us for cheap, and now our economy crashes because gold is now worthless. People were starving in the streets with pockets full of gold that they couldn't even spend. It was, I cannot stress this enough, an awful time to be alive, all because one unfathomably rich king didn't understand the word moderation."

"Wow," Palmira blinked slowly. She'd never owned any gold herself, but the idea of having wealth only for it to become worthless sounded like something out of her nightmares. "And I thought the demons were bad."

"The demons, at the very least, were kind enough to just kill us. The economy, on the other hand, is a far more ruthless beast. Be grateful that the worst of it has passed."

They bounced between more and more topics as the hours passed, the old merchant waxing poetic on whatever tickled his fancy while she let out appropriate 'hms' and 'wows' whenever necessary. He still continued talking even as morning turned to afternoon and they pulled away from the coast, and she found herself impressed by his lungs. How he hadn't lost his voice yet was a mystery.

However, as the sun began to set, something began peaking up over the rolling hills. At first she assumed it merely a mirage—a trick of the light, maybe. But as they continued marching forward the thing began growing bigger and bigger, until it sat as a wall over the east, stretching from north to south as far as the eye could see.

"Ah, we've made it!" the old merchant let out a relieved laugh. "After how slowly we took the first day I wasn't sure if we would!"

"What is it?" Palmira wheezed, squinting. Her legs had started burning about an hour ago, and now they were starting to go numb. Every one of her thoughts now were dedicated to begging the caravan to stop already.

"Eh?" he seemed shocked. "You've never seen it before?"

She shrugged tiredly. "I've never been this far south before."

"Ah, then how wonderful that you get to see it today! This is the Grande Aquedotto Centrale, or just The Aqueduct for short. It's one of the largest in-tact structures of the ancient Volan Empire, a massive aqueduct that stretches from The Montibus all the way to the Holy City itself!"

Palmira looked up at it, struggling to comprehend how long that was. "How far is it," she gasped, gulping down air when she could, "from The Montibus to Vola?"

"Hm. About… the distance between Firozzi and Iscrimo, I'd say."

Holy shit. "The Volans built something that big!? How…" she took a deep breath. "How did they even do something like that?"

"Nobody knows," the merchant shook his head. "Well, actually, we know how they built the aqueducts. They aren't that complicated. But we have no idea how they funded it, or even where they got all the stone from. We could theoretically repeat the feat today, but few would find it worthwhile to try."

She hummed, and the caravan continued on closer and closer to the aqueduct as she listened to the merchant talk about all the different ruins he'd found on his travels, some from Vola and some even older than that. She grasped the distraction as a lifeline, as her feet hurt worse and worse and the caravan still kept going.

Night fell by the time they finally reached the base of the Grand Aqueduct, and they settled down for the night next to a small farming village huddled around the aqueduct's massive pillars. Palmira flopped herself face first on the ground as the day's exertion finally kicked in and agony exploded from her waist to her feet. She could feel the blisters forming and her legs felt like they were on fire.

She glanced back at them.

Ah, they were actually on fire. Two of the pilgrims had even sat themselves down next to her and started roasting dried meat over the blaze.

"You'd better give me some of that," she told them, before turning back around to die in peace.

Unfortunately, Lorenzo showed up just then, giving her an odd look. He told her she had the first night shift again. She groaned out something unintelligible and waved him away.

With an agonized moan she lifted her head up and rested it on her arms, preparing for a long few hours before she could finally get some sleep.

"The jerky's done," one of the pilgrims told her, and she accepted their offering with grace.

Eventually the pain began to subside to a manageable throb, and she rolled herself into a sitting position to start her shift. She crawled over to the edge of camp using Morte's staff as a walking stick and leaned against an old fence, where she began her watch.

She stared with empty eyes into the night, not registering a single thing in front of her. If bandits or monsters had attacked at some point during the night she probably wouldn't have even noticed. Luckily nothing did, but unfortunately she at some point nodded off and awoke to Chiara glaring at her with disappointment and disgust.

"Since it seems you've already slept," the girl growled, her nostrils flaring, "I think it's only fair that you take over my watch as well."

Palmira blinked uncomprehendingly at her. "Sure," she said absently, and then immediately went back to sleep.

In the morning she was woken up again by Lorenzo, who seemed equal parts disappointed and amused. "I heard you fell asleep during your watch last night," he told her.

"…Did I?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. "I certainly don't feel like it."

"You did," he scratched his head. "It's a bit my fault, I think. I should've noticed how tired you were and given you the last watch. I suppose I just saw how easily you were keeping up that I forgot you ran the whole way."

Palmira blinked, still not fully awake. She found herself staring at the way his hand flexed over his chin. "My legs hurt," she told him. "I don't think I can stand up."

"…Wait, actually? Did you injure yourself yesterday? Do you mind if I take a look?"

Absolutely not. "Sure," she said, her mouth moving without her mind. Then she took her pants off.

Lorenzo, instead of flushing and looking away like he might have at any other time, instead hissed and leaned down, hovering his hands over her legs worriedly. The skin had gone red and puffy in many places, and around her knees were the beginnings of bruises. Blisters covered the bottom of her feet, and several parts of her were still actively on fire from the last night.

"Okay, that's not good," he winced. "Do you mind if I touch them quickly?"

She worked her jaw. "…Only below the knees," she said at last.

Lorenzo nodded and gingerly touched the red skin near her shins. The leg immediately jumped and she let out a hiss of pain.

"Okay," he told her, "You aren't doing any more walking today. You'll be riding with me and Bella, because if this gets any worse we might have to carry you all the way back to Firozzi."

"Ouch," she said belatedly.

"I'll be back in a bit with Bella," he told her, standing up. "You sit tight until then, alright?"

She nodded, and closed her eyes the second he left.

"Hey," Morte grabbed her attention. "Remember to put your pants back on."

Ah. That would probably be smart.

Lorenzo shook her awake a bit later and had her drink something that tasted like dried mushrooms and bat wings that numbed the pain she was feeling in her legs. He then helped her crawl onto Bella's back and strapped her in, before the bear marched them over to the base of the aqueduct where the rest of the caravan had gathered.

Or at least, some of it.

"Where'd everybody else go?" she asked, squinting. Surely there'd been more people yesterday, right? Had they left them to march on ahead?

Her questions were answered a moment later as a flash of blue light began to shine from the aqueduct, and several of the wagons rose up and up and up until they reached the top, where they were then deposited on top of the aqueduct. Then some more wagons were dragged forward, and the process repeated itself.

"…Huh?" she rubbed her eyes, wondering if she was still sleeping.

"We'll be going by aqueduct the rest of the way," Lorenzo told her. "Riposa's only accessible by it these days, so we'd have to even if it weren't the fastest way to get there. Chiara went up first if you were wondering, and we'll be taking up the rear."

Half an hour later the last of the wagons had been levitated up, and Bella trundled up to follow. For a moment she felt nothing, but then she began to glow blue and the world blurred into greens and blues and there was a rush of adrenaline and suddenly she found herself on top of the aqueduct.

"…That was amazing!" she grinned, now fully awake. "Can we do that again?"

"No," Lorenzo wheezed, looking quite green even for a druid.

Ah, right, they had a job to do. Drat.

She was definitely coming back here in her off time.

The top of the aqueduct was drastically different from the stone roads below. A wide artificial river sat in the center of the stone, and as she watched the merchants had already begun converting the wagons and wheelhouses into boats to sail down it. She glanced back over her shoulder at the world below, and she found herself breathless at the sight. Farms sprawled in endless green squares along the coast, and the dark blue ocean stretched out so far she could see the curve of the horizon in the distance. Far to the north she could see hazy mountaintops peaking over the horizon, and far to the south she saw the faint beginning of Edda's Folly.

"They look like ants from up here," she whispered. She wondered if this was how the great dragon Vesuvius felt, when he flew across the ancient skies. She wondered if one day she could feel like this every day.

"Yup," Lorenzo grunted, directing Bella over to the water. "You get used to it, after a while."

She shook her head. She never wanted to get used to it.

Bella got in and began swimming behind the now floating caravan, and then they were off, following it down the aqueduct.

The ride down the aqueduct was calm, and the cloudless sky meant the warmth of the sun bore down on their heads. She noticed some of the stragglers near the back seemed to be sweating and fanning themselves, but she could only feel herself waking up more and more as the sunlight suffused her entire being.

Eventually the land far beneath them disappeared, replaced by the shallow seas and stones of Edda's Folly. Occasionally she chanced a glance over the edge, spotting small islands that had once been the tops of hills and long destroyed villages whose only remnants were the crumbling chimneys still sticking above the waves. The remnants of the Woman-Serpent's last campaign against the land, and the closest she'd gotten to victory.

Once this place had been miles inland. Now it was the middle of the sea, miles from shore.

Palmira forced herself to look away. The open sea had always filled her with a deeply uncomfortable feeling, but this false sea filled her with a new type of unease. She found herself staring off at the horizon more often than not, wondering if today would be the day the Woman-Serpent would return to sink more of the world.

"Don't worry," Lorenzo told her when he caught her staring. "The Demon Lords aren't unstoppable. We've killed one, after all, and we'll kill the rest soon enough."

Bella let out a snort of agreement.

She turned to look ahead, but found her eyes drawn to a queer sight. Along the edge of the aqueduct, working away as they passed, were a group of… men, maybe, dressed in head to toe with unadorned bronze plate. Even their heads were completely covered with masks that resembled the faces of people, but made her feel uneasy when one turned to stare at her.

The group stood over a large section of the aqueduct that had crumbled away, moving massive limestone bricks into place as they repaired it. Barring the one that watched them, they made no notice of their presence as they passed and she found herself confused and curious by them.

"Ah, the Automata," Morte's voice was flooded with a surprising nostalgia, drawing her attention. "I'm surprised they're still up and running. When I'd heard what Edda had done… well, there's no use bothering with it now."

"Automata?" she asked him, rolling around the word on her tongue. Lorenzo gave them a look out of the corner of his eye, obviously listening in. "Is that their race? I thought they were just humans in masks or something."

"Their race? I suppose that's one way of looking at it, and probably the way you'd understand it best. The Automata have been maintaining these works since the ancient Volans first constructed them. I've always been fascinated by them, even back when I was not bound to this staff, though that might have been enhanced by how often we had to destroy them. They're neutral most of the time, but grow enraged when they see someone damaging their masters' works."

"They've really been working since the time of the ancient Volans? That's pretty impressive."

"Mhm. Though don't admire them too much—they were slaves then, and they're slaves now. They can only ever be one thing, and they can't even choose what that is. And, one day, when this aqueduct finally crumbles into the sea, they will die forever. And only in that death will they be free."

He fell silent after that, and she didn't feel like asking anymore questions. Instead she simply watched the Automata work until they were distant specks on the horizon.

--

​

"I think I'm good to walk now," she told Lorenzo after a few hours. Her legs no longer hurt but had started cramping, and she was a bit worried she was having a bad reaction to the potion he'd given her given how much her stomach was fluttering around. She wanted to be near the edge if she was going to throw up.

"Wait a bit longer," he told her, giving her a concerned look. "To make sure they've healed fully. And don't be afraid to ask for a ride from someone if your legs start hurting again. There's no shame in it, okay? Our job is to protect the caravan, and we can't do that if we exhaust ourselves just following it."

"Don't worry," she reassured him. "I think I can—"

They were suddenly interrupted when a bird flew down and alighted on Bella's head.

Wait.

She looked closer at the bird, and realized it was not a bird at all. Rather it was a being of pure crystal, with delicate wings that glowed with reflected sunlight. It let out a sound similar to shattering glass, and then Chiara's voice spoke from it.

"I've come across something further upstream," she said. "It's blocking the whole aqueduct, and I want you up here with me in case something goes wrong."

It's message done, the crystal bird shattered, the crystal shards falling all over Bella's head and causing the bear to give out an annoyed huff.

Lorenzo frowned. "What in the world could that be? Surely the Custodians wouldn't just let something block the aqueduct."

"Are we going to go then?" she asked, flexing her toes. The lack of walking had felt good at first, but now she found herself wanting to move.

"…You go on ahead," he told her. "Bella and I aren't exactly the best so far up in the sky. I'll move to the front to talk with the leaders of the caravan, while you can run up and figure out what's going on with Chiara."

Palmira made a face. "You really want me to go up there alone with her?"

"Chiara is a professional," he said, though he looked like he barely believed his own words. "She won't let some mild dislike get in the way of a job."

"You sure about that?"

"Of course. Because if she does, I'll tell on her to the guildmaster, and she knows I'd do that too. She'll behave. She better."

Palmira didn't really feel that was enough of a guarantee for her, but she also really wanted to get moving again. So she agreed and grabbed Morte and shuffled her way off the big bear and onto the stone walkways beside them. Lighting her feet up once again, she took off at a brisk jog, being careful of her footing near the edge as she blitzed past the floating caravan.

She reached the front in no time at all and continued right past it, relishing in the pounding of her feet against the smooth stone of the aqueduct, even with the occasional flare of pain from her blisters. She found that, even as she missed the dense streets of the city, getting to run out in the open air like this was freeing in its own right.

Soon enough however she saw Chiara standing next to her crystal horse in the distance, and she sprinted the last few dozen meters up to the girl.

Chiara scowled at her as she approached. "What are you doing here? Where's Lorenzo?"

"He stayed behind to talk with the leaders," she panted lightly. "He told me to go ahead and help you out with whatever the issue was. He said something about not being very good this high up?"

Her scowl deepened. "Of course he isn't," she grumbled, crossing her arms. "But that doesn't mean he can just leave me with—" she took a deep breath. "You know what? Fine. It doesn't matter. Get ready to set shit on fire and follow me."

Alright, that she could do.

Chiara patted the side of her horse, who kneeled down to rest against the stone ground. It didn't have a face, but it gave Palmira a look that made her want to set it on fire, and she wasn't even sure why.

Chiara gave her a warning glare, before stomping her way further down the aqueduct and dragging her along.

"I don't know what it is," she pointed in the distance. Palmira squinted, but only saw a cloud. She hoped whatever she was supposed to set on fire wasn't invisible. "But it's blocking the whole damn aqueduct. I don't care if it's hostile or dangerous or anything, but it needs to move."

As they got closer she suddenly realized what she'd assumed was simply a low hanging cloud seemed much more solid at a second glance, looking far more… fluffy.

"What is that?" Palmira asked, squinting. It was big and white and round and fluffy.

Then, suddenly, the great white fluffball shuddered, and it let out a low, loud keen. Slowly, a massive pillar of white rose from its body and up to the heavens, blocking out the sun. The pillar shifted and turned, revealing round beady eyes and a massive, bright orange bill sneering down at them.

"A giant goose?" Palmira asked, incredulous.

The giant goose head turned and locked eyes with them. Then, it shuddered once again, and in an instant five more giant goose heads rose from its body to glare at them.

"Oh, no," Chiara whispered, her face ashen. "That's no goose—that's a hydra."

And as if speaking its name angered it, the great hydra let out a terrifying warcry that would haunt her nightmares for months to come.

"HONK!"